


A Future Father's Lesson

by AParticularlyLargeBear



Series: Lessons [9]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, Gender Identity, Genderqueer Noire, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Transwoman Inigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParticularlyLargeBear/pseuds/AParticularlyLargeBear
Summary: There are a few things Inigo needs to come to terms with about herself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you're aware of what you're getting into, Inigo in this story is still coming to terms with gender identity and being a woman. As such the pronouns don't line up with Inigo's identity for the majority of the writing.
> 
> Just something to be conscious of if that's likely to bother you.

"Who is she?"

"Never gives a name."

"Oh come on, she has to have a name. They have posters!"

"Yeah, read one. It says 'The Plegian Dancer',"

"So that's her name. She has a billing."

"Plegian dancer is a description, not a name!"

"Stage names count!"

Inigo tuned out the conversation from the patrons around him. He really shouldn't; the whole reason he'd come to this town was rumours, but lately his concentration just hadn't been there. Distraction and repeated dead ends had seen fit to that. 

It was frustrating, because he really didn't think that it had been a bad idea to pick up some news. Surely there had to be some,  _any_ word of either people resembling his friends or the Ylissean Shepherds—the war in Valm at the very least. That line of investigation had turned up his first setback; the Valmese hadn't arrived yet. Some additional subtle enquiries that weren't really phrased as enquiries, and he'd learned that _Gangrel_ was still in power. So uh, great. Going back in time had been the point, but _this_ far back? For Naga's sake, Inigo's parents wouldn't meet for over two years! Disheartened, Inigo had scaled back his investigations, hearing only limited news of Ylisse. Within that, the Shepherds were only mentioned in passing, and never their location. Nobody fitting the description of any of Inigo's friends, either.

So logically, Inigo should have picked up some odd jobs—maybe a guarding or escort role—and then moved on at his earliest opportunity. If some of the others had landed this far back, then he had a responsibility to find them. Instead he found himself loath to do so. He'd so rarely had the luxury of just being  _safe_ , of having people around who weren't in constant fear for their lives. That, and the people, their wry and cynical outlook and gallows humour, they reminded him of the father he so sorely missed.

Well, none of them cackled maniacally at the idea of a maiming, but nobody said it was a direct reminder.

Inigo probably — _definitely_ —would have been very concerned if his dad's sense of humour was a common feature to  _any_ group of people, let alone an entire country.

Much as he hated to admit it, he was settling. There were responsibilities and world-changing events and friends and family out there, and Inigo was finding it incredibly difficult to care. Here, he could be Inigo. Not the swordsman or the charmer, or the one who always found a way to smile and raise the others' spirits, not the optimist or the mercenary, or the son of Olivia, or ... he could go on forever.

Inigo was Inigo, and here in this town, Inigo could be anything and anyone that felt right.

A pretty waitress brought across a small mug of the glistening ale he'd taken a liking to. He flashed her a smile that failed to reach his eyes, which then lingered on her as she made her way back across the room to the bar. As usual, his emotions grappled in a conflicting mess of feelings;  _do I **like** her, or do I want to  **be** like her?_

Which was always the problem. Getting tongue-tied around women, struggling with being shy; that was a whole flux worth of disarray. Sometimes, to be Inigo was to be the gallant, swashbuckling swordsman, and sometimes Inigo was perfectly fine with that. Sometimes, though, when he—and didn't it feel strange to think  _he_ at times like those—stepped out onto a stage, and his hair was down and his arms were ribboned, and all of a sudden he didn't feel self-conscious about himself or his dancing...  _That_ Inigo was the Inigo that occupied his thoughts for long hours. Because she was him.  _She_ was him.

And to hear people talking about the woman that was the Plegian Dancer, that gave Inigo a strange kind of fizzing sensation in the pit of his stomach. Not an unpleasant one, either.

He, Inigo admitted to himself, just didn't want to walk away from that. As much as he dearly loved his friends, they didn't make him feel that way. He'd grown up with them, and to them, that meant Inigo was a specific person.

A person that Inigo didn't even know if he wanted to be anymore.

\---

Onstage was always where Inigo felt best. If anyone had told him that even a couple of months ago, he would have scoffed at them. For Naga's sake, he'd spent his childhood stammering 'till his tongue twisted itself into a knot whenever a stranger so much as looked his way. The thought of actually performing in front of others went beyond just intimidation and into pure terror.

At least it  _had_. 

Not so since coming here. Maybe it was the anonymity, maybe it was...

_The steps flow like a river, the ribbons swirl in the air, as if borne upon a wind exclusive to only Inigo._

_Olivia used to dance like this, when Inigo was a child. Copying it had never worked; there was a certain **magic** to the dance that Inigo just couldn't duplicate._

_Except now, you can almost see the light glistening around every inch of the dancer astride the stage._

_The audience watches below, rapt. Some mouths are open. There's talk, but nobody's making fun, nobody's laughing. Their eyes are on the performance and nothing more._

_Because the magic is here. It's tangible._

_And as rapt their attention is?_

_Inigo is captivated._

The dance ended, Inigo held the final pose. It felt like the room was collectively holding its breath.

And then applause, and the moment was snapped. Inigo was conscious of the eyes on him, of the sweat trickling down his forehead and his arms, of how his chest was rising and falling with exertion.

He bowed to them, and had to force himself to look unhurried as he headed offstage. 

His hands were shaking as he descended the stairs towards the tavern's backroom. Every ounce of nervousness he  _hadn't_ been feeling whilst dancing had come crashing down upon him in an instant.

The shortness of breath was everything and nothing to do with the exertion of the dance.

Inigo barely had a chance to sit down before the door of his dressing room (more of a repurposed pantry) burst open. The tavern proprietor, Inigo's boss, was standing there with a concerned look on his face.

"You need to leave, now."

Inigo blinked. "I'm sorry? Have I offended?"

"What? No, Grima, no. You've brought the most business we've seen in years."

"Then I'm afraid I don't understand."

"There were soldiers in the audience tonight. Plegian military. They've been asking around about you all day."

Inigo's blood ran cold. The army? How? Why? He'd been keeping a low profile, hadn't he? "To what end?" he asked, making his best effort at keeping his voice steady—that was to say, trembling like a leaf.

"Something about your dancing. They mean to conscript you. Here, I've prepared a bag, you need to leave before-"

"Nyahahah! Hold your horses there!"

If Inigo's blood had been cold before, it was now ice.

A young man wearing the robes of a Plegian mage and snowy blonde hair to match Inigo's own strolled into the room. He was smiling, beaming, almost, eyes creased with the kind of mirth that only one person could enjoy. 

"Trying to keep the famous dancer all to yourself, huh? Now that's just rude!" he nudged his way past the paralysed innkeep and gave Inigo a curious look. "I'm Henry! Pleased to meetcha!"

The smile, the unsettling good humour. His father's ghost. Inigo couldn't swallow down the rock in his throat, nor fight back the tears that sprang into his eyes.

Henry's eyebrows rose, and he looked left and right, like he'd just broken something fragile and wasn't sure if anyone had seen. 

"Darn, uh. Usually the crying comes a bit later. I didn't think I'd cause such MAGEjor concern."

 Inigo couldn't hold back the dam. He burst into sobs.

Henry blinked. "Hey, hey! I thought that one was pretty good!"

It wasn't that it was a bad pun. Half of Inigo wanted to snicker, actually, because the dumb wordplay was something he'd inherited from his dad. It was that it was his dad. Making dumb jokes. As if it hadn't been years since Inigo saw him for the last time, the smile on his face running worn and tired, laughter forced rather than free and cheerful.

_Nyaha! Don't worry about me, squirt! They so much as look at me funny and I'll hex 'em so hard their eyes pop out!_

Afterwards, when his father had returned home on a bier, that tired tired smile replaced with a serene and peaceful one, Inigo had realised he'd never intended on coming back.

"Gods, Henry. Leave the poor kid alone," a man with hair almost as scruffy as his chin leaned into the room. He wore riding leathers and a shabby breastplate. "It's all right, we're not here to hurt anyone."

"Aww! Why'd you have to go and say that, Vasto?" Henry pouted. "Killjoy."

"Can't have you having too much fun."

Inigo, just about, managed to get the waterworks under control, biting down on his knuckle to stifle the sobs. "W-what do you want with me?"

"By decree of his holy royal highness..." Vasto trailed off, faking a yawn. "Blah blah de blah. Short version, you get to go to a palace. Cool, right?"

"Lucky you! And if you're really lucky, King Gangrel might even let you leave! Nyahaha!"

Great. Thanks dad. The innkeep looked about ready to faint.

Inigo finally managed to swallow. "L-let me guess. This isn't an optional invitation."

"Nope!" Henry chirped cheerfully.

Inigo closed his eyes and exhaled shakily.

"All right. Give me a moment to collect my things."

He was screwed.

\---

They were a few miles outside of town now. Vasto, it turned out, had had a wyvern waiting, and had taken to the air in short order, dismissing the squad of soldiers who'd accompanied them to the edge of town. The terrain, inhospitable and rugged, was tempered by Henry, who was projecting a magical aura around their feet as casually as breathing. Inigo couldn't say he wasn't grateful for it; hiking across the desert hadn't been his favourite part of travelling around Plegia.

Vasto made another pass overhead, and then arrowed off to the west.  He'd told them he 'wasn't here to babysit' and was in the midst of a scouting run. He was a good flier; not as good as Gerome, but that was a lofty goal. Inigo dropped his eyes back to the path ahead, noticing on the periphery that his father was looking his way, head cocked to one side.

"Stop staring at me."

Henry smiled, halfway between amusement and surprise. "Shan't."

"I'm not interesting."

"Nyahaha! Says you!" Henry stuck his hands in his pockets. "Where ya from, kid?"

Taken offguard by the sudden change of subject, Inigo scrambled for an answer  "Plegia?" 

_Dammit scramble better next time!_

Henry smirked. "You have an accent; you didn't grow up here," a speculative look. "One of your parents, maybe."

Inigo's stomach clenched. "My father."

"He taught you good Plegian."

"He died," Inigo said shortly.

"Sucks. So... where ya from?"

Inigo gritted his teeth. His eyes were welling up again. He also got the sense that 'Ylissetol' wasn't going to go down well. "Regna Ferox," technically not a lie.

" _That's_ the accent! I was in REGular fits figuring that out!" Henry looked inordinately pleased with himself, another spectre's smile. "What brought you over our way?"

"My mother liked to travel. Plegian culture sounded interesting," also technically not a lie. Back in his own time, his father hadn't precisely been a scholar of Plegia—Inigo had always been left wanting a little more.

"I bet! So, when you did know?"

That took a second to process. "...About Plegia?"

"Nyaha! Don't be a doofus! About..." Henry gestured Inigo's way, head to toe.

He was conscious that he was still wearing his dancing clothes, if only with a loose jacket to shield him from the sun. He still, however, didn't understand what Henry was getting at. "My clothes? Myself?"

 "That you were a  _girl!_ "

Inigo, all of a sudden, couldn't breathe. What?

_What._

"I don't- I..." he was tongue tied. How were you supposed to respond to that? The notion was ludicrous.

Completely...

_"You know, if you keep making faces you'll stick like that."_

_Inigo jumps, attention having been fixed squarely on a wall, brow furrowed. Olivia hadn't even made a sound as she approached._

_He sticks out his tongue. "Will not!" a pause. "Not 'less daddy hexes me."_

_Olivia laughs—nothing like his dad's little giggles, lively and delighted—and tousles his hair. Inigo grumbles accordingly. He's just got that to look nice!_

_"What's got you so focused, sweetie?"_

_He hesitates, not through reluctance, always willing to talk (and especially to his mother), but uncertainty. Does he have the words, really, to ask? "Well, uhm. It's Noire. Sometimes she sort of dresses different?"_

_"Clothes are only clothes. If Noire likes wearing different things, that's fine. She's still your friend, right?"_

_Inigo's eyes widen, and he nods rapidly. Of course she is! No question! "It's not that it's just clothes? It's uh... Like uhm, like there's a girly Noire and then a not girly Noire. Like, two different Noires?" Inigo can't fumble his way through this. It's still Noire, either way, but... this is why he ends up frowning and staring at walls about this! It's complicated!_

_"Oh! I see," his mom cups her chin. "I didn't realise that Tharja-" she cuts herself off with a shake of her head. "You know your daddy isn't from Ylisse?"_

_Inigo nods again with a smile. "He's Plegian! I like Plegia. The books have nice pictures," his dad's been teaching him the language too, and at five years old, Inigo's already almost as fluent as he is in his home tongue._

_"We'll visit someday, darling," Olivia promises. "Noire's mommy is from Plegia too. It's a little different from Ylisse over there. Boys, um, aren't always boys, and girls aren't always girls. Sometimes they're neither, or both. Sometimes people decide they feel more like a boy than a girl and decide to be a boy all the time."_

_"That sounds like Noire!" Inigo is bouncing. Swapping back and forth, like sometimes Noire's a she and sometimes a he, that's just how it feels!_

_Olivia nods. "Why don't you ask her, sweetie? I'm sure she won't mind."_

_"Okay!"_

_Inigo's heart is aflutter, and now more than ever, he wants to see his father's homeland._

Ludicrous.

Henry was smiling.

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Surrrrrre you don't, Miss Advertised-as-a-woman-on-the-posters."

"That was just for-!" Inigo stumbled over his words again, face heating up rapidly. His heart was hammering at a patter even his finest footwork would envy. Because he  _could_ have just given a pseudonym, couldn't he? Inigo didn't have to—as right and natural as it felt—announce the dances as performed by a woman.

"Uhhhh-huhhhhh."

Gods, was his father actually genuinely  _worse_ when he was younger? Inigo hadn't thought that was possible.

Inigo's embarrassment was edged away by a growing feeling of indignation. Father or not (and did he count? This Henry's Inigo was still three or more years away), Inigo wasn't happy with this turn of events. Not at all. "Is it not enough you've taken me under guard? Do you really have to mock me too?"

Henry's eyebrows rocketed upwards, and his smile faded. "Hey, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to make you feel bad," he paused. "About gender anyhow."

Was it possible to melt from sheer focused exasperation? Inigo felt like he was sure to find out if this conversation continued. How could it be that his father had actually calmed down as he got older?

If Inigo was hoping that giving Henry the cold shoulder would make him give up, he was both sorely mistaken and lacking in memory. "It's okay to experiment, ya know? That's kind of our thing here. We're flexible."

"Do you have this conversation with everyone you kidnap, or just me?"

Henry laughed again. "It's not a kidnapping, it's a royal order! You're just doing your civic duty."

"I thought we established I'm not Plegian."

"Eh, details."

Inigo bit back a sharp response, reminding himself that however close the resemblance, this wasn't truly his father. Overstep the wrong boundary, and he was in very real danger. "You didn't answer my question."

Henry shrugged. "Was just interested. Working things like this out is the one time people actually want to see a dark mage, nyahaha!"

Of course, where his dad was concerned, somebody  _not_ being pleased to see him was the best part of his day. "I see."

Henry studied him closely, and then leaned back. "Well, lemme know if you have any thoughts. We're gonna be spending a lot of time together over the next couple weeks."

A month ago, Inigo would have been thrilled to hear that. Now, he had no earthly idea how he was going to deal with his father's company. Inigo was bad at keeping secrets at the best of times; how was he supposed to avoid slipping up with his father? What did it matter that Inigo didn't exist in this timeline yet? Even deaged, Henry was—

Well, Inigo didn't know whether to start crying again, hug him as hard as he possibly could, or start shouting at him for going off and  _dying_ like that. Some combination of all three? Logic was a candle in the wind to the storm of emotions in Inigo's heart.

Also, on the wishlist of events for Inigo's jaunt through time, 'personal audience with the mad king Gangrel' ranked so low as to be subterranean.

"Okay. Fine."

"'atta girl. Boy? Girl?" Henry shrugged. "Either way."

Inigo opened his mouth to protest and no sound came out.

He, absurdly, wanted to smile.

\---

Henry was terrible company because he was good company.

There were a hundred and one injokes and puns and wisecracks that Inigo wanted to make to him, that he _knew_ his father would find hilarious. Yet he couldn't. He couldn't risk blowing his cover. He was bursting to just relax and hang out with his father for the first time in far too long, just _talk_ without sorrow or impending death or grim truths. Inigo's group had discussed, in their own timeline, how to act if they encountered people they all knew—an inevitability really, if they intended on changing the past—and more or less come up with 'don't tell anyone who you are'. Nobody had  _liked_ that, since why bother going back in time to save everyone if you couldn't even talk to them, but the logic had been sound. Change only what was necessary to preserve the past, save lives, and prevent Grima's return. They'd have to satisfy themselves with the knowledge that they'd saved this timeline from the same fate as their own, that in some small way, their own, real parents were alive. 

However difficult Inigo had anticipated it would be to hold himself back, the reality blasted it out of the water. This was here, this was now, this was real. And he couldn't so much as hint at who he really was, or risk compromising everything they'd come back for. What if telling Henry who he was prevented some key event of the past? What if mentioning his mother resulted in Henry not defecting from Plegia, or not entering into that relationship in the first place?

This timeline's Inigo, as much as he wouldn't be born for years yet, deserved better than to be sabotaged by an imposter.

Thankfully (sort of), there were sufficient distractions for Inigo to dodge mentioning his family and background in anything but the vaguest terms. Henry's attention wandered about as much as Inigo's did, and they discussed everything from the terrain to Plegian lore to Anima magic, a topic which his father seemed surprised he was conversant in.

"Ya know, I would never have taken you for a magic type, Lazzie," Inigo had given the pseudonym of 'Lazward'—the alias he'd come up with previously—and Henry had yet to actually use it. "I mean, there's definitely magic in that dancing of yours, but don't think I've ever met someone knowing this much about magic that doesn't tote a tome around."

Between the innkeeper and the hints Henry and Vasto had dropped, Inigo had realised that this really  _was_ about his dancing. He wasn't sure how to feel about that—asides from the terror of having drawn the attention of a crazed king whilst he was trying to be incognigo. His dances had never had the potency of his mother's, pleasant to watch (when he could muster his courage to actually perform), but not  _inspire_ , not  _reinvigorate_ , like Olivia's. Hers had truly been magical. To hear that there was even a sliver of that same inspiration made his spirit soar. It made him feel as if he was finally living up to her memory.

"I prefer my sword," which he did. More accurately, his aptitude for Anima was, to put it delicately, limited. According to his father, many mages channeled their emotions into their spells, harnessed them to bolster their focus and power. For Inigo, any time he had attempted to cast a spell, he felt a combination of anxiety and giddy excitement and the attempt spluttered into nothingness. He knew he  _had_ the magic, and projecting his concentration and mana through a tome, that was easy. Actually getting it to manifest? Ehhhhh. Leave it to Laurent and Morgan.

Henry made a face. "Swords are so dull. Seen one stab and you've seem 'em all! Nothing like just blowing someone away with a curse. Just-boom! Smithereens!"

If Inigo hadn't grown up with this, he might have found it disconcerting. By now it was just business as usual. "The artistry in bladework is in the technique, not the approach."

Henry blinked, and then laughed. "Deep, Lazzie, deep. You're a really odd kid, ya know?" he paused, trailing. "I mean, I can talk, everyone calls _me_ odd, but you're odd differently. How old  _are_ you, anyway?"

"Sixteen."

"No way! You're still a baby!"

Inigo stiffened. "Old enough to use a weapon. Old enough to kill."

Another smile, and much unlike Henry's usual smile. Sly, slightly crooked, the private smile of someone who was having some very disturbing thoughts indeed. Inigo had seen that smile before too.

_"Ha! You're no match for me, villain!"_

_Inigo straightens up, scowling. Owain bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, holding his sword like it weighs nothing._

_By contrast, Inigo's weapon feels like a iron anchor on his arm—or perhaps around his neck. He never beats Owain, but today, he's losing even worse than usual._

_"Shut up," he manages to gasp._

_"Pah! Your words are meaningless!" Owain flourishes his blade. "Have at thee!"_

_For all his showboating, Owain is just frustratingly good with a sword. He's nearly a match for Lucina, and she's almost four years older than him. The added pressure of spectators doesn't help; some of the senior Shepherds are home from the Valmese front and, ever the drillmaster, the first thing Sir Frederick has the kids do is train._

_Inigo doesn't do well with audiences at the best of times. He does even worse when it's his dad watching._

_He comes forward, bats Owain's practice sword aside, lunges. Owain practically pirouettes out of the way, sending Inigo stumbling effortlessly._

_"Not good enough, Inigo," Frederick comments. "Reckless."_

_Inigo tries and fails not to scowl. He turns, and Owain is there, looking at him with a smug smirk. Beyond, at the edge of the training paddock, Inigo's father is leaning on the fence, boredom etched all across his face._

_"Now, tremble before my awesome might!"_

_Oh my gods did he never shut up?_

_Forward again, and their blades clash once, twice, and on the third swing Owain sidesteps elegantly, sweeping Inigo with his trailing leg and for the third time that day, dropping him into the dirt._

_"SENSATIONAL SWIPE! Ha! No mere mortal is a match for Owain, Hero of Ylisse!"_

_"Focus, Owain. But good work," Fredrick again._

_Inigo lies there on the floor for a moment, face turned to the side. He still faces his father, who, seeming to note his attention, stretches and yawns._

_His stomach twists. Something pokes him hard in the chest. Owain is standing above him, pointing his sword downwards._

_"Do you yield, foul and loathsome knave?"_

_Inigo doesn't know when he goes from laying down to on his feet, smashing Owain's weapon so hard with the back of his arm that it flies from his hand. Inigo is still moving, lunging forward, catching Owain around the legs and pitching him over, crash-tackling him to the floor._

_Owain squawks in alarm. "Hey no fair-!"_

_Inigo's knuckles meet Owain's face, whipping his head back. He pins him down, knees on Owain's shoulders, pulls back his fist again._

_"Do **you** yield-!"_

_"INIGO! ENOUGH!"_

_He jumps, and half dismounts, half falls from Owain. There's blood on the other boy's face, blood on his knuckles._

_"I-I didn't mean to-"_

_"Nyahahah! 'Atta boy, Inigo!"_

_Henry is, for the first time that morning, looking interested._

_He's wearing an unsettling smile to go with his enthusiasm._

"You've killed, eh?"

Oh. Wonderful. Inigo nodded.

That smile got just a little wider, showing teeth. "How'd it feel?"

"Does it matter? It was necessary."

Henry pulled a face. "You're no fun."

His mother had never quite come around to his father's view, or rather, affinity for violence. That had rubbed off on Inigo. Unlike Henry, he didn't find hurting people to be fun. Inigo had seen far too much death to find it exciting. Regardless of his feelings on the matter, though, the Grimleal of his time had rarely given him a choice.

"I have fun dancing."

"And dressing as a woman!"

Not this again. Inigo had swapped back into his travelling clothes their second day on the (lack of) road. Vasto had seemed legitimately surprised he wasn't a woman, a realisation that Inigo had found incongruously painful. He was feeling more self conscious than usual about his appearance, fussing endlessly over whether he should have his hair tied up or let down, hyper aware of his performing outfits laying there in his pack.

"Aren't we past this?"

"Me, maybe. You clearly aren't," Henry put his hands on his hips and positively beamed. "Tell ya what. I'll leave it alone if you look me in the eyes and tell me straight that you don't wonder about all that."

"I-" Inigo faltered, blushed. He couldn't find the words. He'd never been able to lie to his father, not least because on those few foolish occasions he'd tried, Henry had seen straight through him. 

"Look, kiddo..." Henry stopped walking. His expression for once was sober. "Maybe it's not my business, but that's never stopped me before! Nyaha!" the laugh seemed more by rote than genuine amusement. "Sixteen is young, but not too young to know who you are. Sooner you put this to rest, sooner you get to be yourself. If that's Lazward, smart boy all set to grow up into a brave man, then sure. If it isn't, well, don't ya think you owe it to yourself not to ignore it?"

Inigo closed his eyes. Breathed out. Henry clearly wasn't going to let this go. So perhaps he should be honest, with himself as much as his father. "I... don't know." 

...

Honesty wasn't helping clear things up. That wasn't fair at all.

Henry clapped him on the shoulder, smiling with what seemed genuine warmth. "Just think about what feels right. S'about as much as I can tell ya."

Inigo shied away from the touch. That kind of contact with the man who was and wasn't his father felt wrong  _because_ it felt right. He was afraid that if he allowed himself a moment not to worry, then he would find himself falling headlong over a precipice. 

He couldn't let himself be this Henry's child. Not for anything.  Best to change the subject.

"How far to Plegia castle?"

Henry shrugged.  "Another week or so? I dunno," if he had any opinion on the blatant shift, then he was keeping it to himself.

The jaws of dread clamped tight around Inigo's heart. A week. Seven days to figure a way out of this mess; maybe fewer, if he took into account the closer to the castle, the tighter the security would be. The opportunity could easily slip away, and then he'd be stuck with an insane king who, if Inigo had his dates figured right, was very shortly going to declare war on Ylisse. If Gangrel believed that his dances had power, then Inigo would be conscripted in an instant.

That didn't bear thinking about. He needed to escape, and quickly.

There was a cheery screech from overhead as Vasto swung over them. He waved, and Henry waved back. 

A dark mage on the ground, a wyvern rider in the air, and a thousand and one turmoils in his heart...

Whatever idea Inigo came up with, it was going to have to be damn good.

\---

The opportunity, such as it was, landed in Inigo's lap three nights later. 

Vasto's wyvern had been unsettled for most of the day, flying low on each pass. When they stopped for the night, Vasto approached Henry and explained that he thought the animal might have strained a muscle. Inigo was no expert himself, but he'd spent enough time with Gerome to pick up the basics, and it  _did_ seem as if the animal was holding one wing rather tentatively tucked. 

That was important. That entailed both distraction and impairment, and Inigo needed both, if he was to carry this off. Unlike most previous nights, Vasto was sitting off away from the campfire, keeping his injured mount company. Another positive.

Inigo curled up on his bedroll and waited. His father had always been a light and late sleeper, possessing a seemingly unending well of energy to draw upon. What was worse, it was almost impossible to tell when he  _was_ asleep, because he had a tendency to slumber whilst sitting up. 

Sometimes, Inigo just had to take a moment to appreciate how much weirdness that he had simply grown accustomed to. Between his upbringing and the time travel, he was ready for anything.

Except, apparently, his own gender.

Ugh. Not the time, had to stay focused.

Inigo carefully rolled over. He'd been facing in the opposite direction for ten minutes or more—long enough to take another look. Eyes lidded, almost shut, Inigo squinted through the darkness at Henry. The firelight flickered on his face as he sat motionless, eyes closed. Inigo watched and waited. Henry's soft breathing drifted over to him. Inigo remained still. Ever so slightly, Henry's chest was rising and falling.

Inch by inch, Inigo rose, painstakingly shifting his weight, getting his feet underneath him, and then stealing over to Henry's pack. They'd confiscated his sword immediately upon departing town, and he was going to need it. Risky to retrieve the weapon, but borderline insane to brave Plegian wastelands without. 

The hilt of the sword was sticking out from inside the bag, and Inigo slowly reached out for it, barely daring to breathe, eyes locked on the sleeping Henry. His fingertips brushed it-

And there was a blinding flash, sending dancing spots into his eyes.The pack flew in the air, divesting itself of all its contents. Inigo fell back with a strangled yelp, the bag hanging in the air for a few moments before dropping back motionless to the floor.

"Well, Vasto owes me money, nya ha!"

Henry was up, hands sticking in his pockets, beaming like the cat that caught the canary. Inigo blinked, trying to clear the flashing afterimages from his vision. Henry strolled over to him, swaggering with each step, a man with all the time in the world.

Inigo shook his head, put down a hand to push himself up. It alighted on not the ground, but something smooth, square, and cold. He glanced down for just an instant; a dark purple book was underneath his palm. No, not a book, a tome.

"Ya see, Vasto thought that you were more the shrinking violet type, wouldn't hurt a fly.  _Me_ , I think you've got more edge than that. You don't wanna be here, and you weren't just gonna sit there and take it," Henry stopped in front of him with another smirk. "So. I put a little insurance on that sword of yours, and wouldn't 'cha know it, here you are," Henry frowned for a brief instant. "Gotta say wasn't expecting it to chuck my stuff everywhere though. Needs work."

"Is this some kind of joke to you?" Inigo asked, though he already knew the answer.

Henry shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe I was looking to stop you from doing something stupid. If Vasto caught you, then hoo booy you'd be in trouble."

"Then how are you supposed to win a bet with him?"

Henry paused. "...Darn it. Caught myself out. Nyahaha! Maybe I shouldn't have cast a silent hex!"

Inigo scowled, clenching his fists. Without quite intending it, his fingers grasped the tome's spine. Immediately, a little electrical tingle unlike anything he'd ever felt from a tome before ran up his arm, fingertips to elbow.

"Hold on..." Henry leaned in closely to him, and then grinned. "Nyaha! You found my tome! I'm surprised; most people can't even pick one of those babies up without getting the heebie-jeebies!"

Inigo looked down again, and whilst he might have expected a trickle of unease at realising he had his hand on a tome of dark magic, instead, he felt another jolt, stronger than before. He lifted it up, holding it close.

He'd never so much as picked up this kind of tome before, let alone used one; both his parents had always kept him away from them. Now, however, it meant that he was  _armed_.

Henry came to the same conclusion simultaneously. 

"Don't be getting any silly ideas, kiddo. You might know about Anima, but dark magic is a whole different world."

Inigo held the book a little tighter. It was almost thrumming underneath his fingers. "Is that so?" his heart had crept up into his mouth. He didn't have the first idea of what he was doing here.

Henry's smile twitched into something quite sinister. "I'd bet your life on it."

The tome pulsed. Inigo raised his free hand. Eddying swirls of purple were collecting around his fingers, and he didn't know whether to be fascinated or terrified.

"Welll then..." Henry was staring at Inigo's hand too, still smiling. "You're only gonna get one shot, Lazzie, better make it count," as he spoke, he brought up his own hands, beginning to crackle with the same eldritch energies. No tome needed. Inigo had known his father was a powerful mage, but...

Inigo inhaled, tried to remember what tiny snippets of knowledge Noire had told him about dark magic.

_"Your mom always looks so poised."_

_"She isn't. She says 'You never cast calm'."_

Inigo breathed out again.

Emotions. He could do those.

Breath  _in_

_All eyes on Inigo, on the stage, but perhaps **not** on Inigo but the dancer that Inigo projects, the dancer that is Inigo and not Inigo._

_Talking to Noire, with how she is **she** but also  **he** and perhaps something like  **they** , and that little fizz that is maybe anxiety but perhaps even a little more like envy._

_Plegia, and how Olivia would tell Inigo that sometimes there are boys, sometimes there are girls, and sometimes boys who are not really boys, but know that they are truly girls, and Inigo's stomach doing a flipflop that is impossible to identify or trace or question why._

And  _out_

Inigo's fingertips surged with the dark magic as the spell sprang forth and rushed towards Henry. His eyes widened momentarily, and then the hex crashed into his chest. Flung backward, he did a neat little pirouette in the air before crashing onto his back.

Inigo froze. She'd- he'd- ...

Inigo had never thrown a spell like that before, and the target was his- her- ...

That was Inigo's  _father_.

For a few seconds, Inigo couldn't move, and then there was a soft wheeze from Henry.

"Nya...hahaha... good one..."

Henry's head slumped, but his chest was still rising and falling. He was alive.

This was the best and only chance Inigo was likely to get.

Inigo fled.

\---

Olivia's husband was fascinating to watch (occasionally frightening, though he was getting better with that); he was so startlingly cheerful, and he never seemed to sit still.

Right now, for instance, Olivia was sharing a saddle with him, and even then he continued to fidget. Henry's face lit up, then his brow furrowed, then he made an 'ooh' than an 'aah' and it was enough of a show that she was starting to worry he wasn't actually paying attention to where the horse was going.

"Okay, I give up," she said, trying to withhold a giggle. "What's got you so excited?"

Henry twisted around and shot her a gleaming grin. "Someone's casting dark magic nearby, and wowee they are good!"

Olivia's heart began to race with alarm. "Dark magic? Are there Grimleal here?"

Henry pouted. "It's not  _only_ Grimleal who can use those tomes, ya know."

"R-right, but they probably aren't casting hexes just for fun!"

"I dunno, maybe they're like me, and any reason is fun! Nya haha!" 

"Henry! S-someone could be in trouble!"

"Oh! Right! We oughta go and see if we can watch-"

" _Henry."_

"Watch out for them! Nyaha!"

Olivia glared at him. He just grinned back. Well, she'd known what she was getting into when she married him.

Revenge, on the other hand, was sweet.

She squeezed her heels into the horse's flanks, and it sped up to a canter. Henry yelped, and then laughed.

"Oh, we're doing this! Awesome!"

"W-we should see if we can help!" she forced the tremor down. No, this was the right thing to do, she knew it.

There was a shout from behind as they whipped past some of the other Shepherds, and then they were past the rest of the group and thundering along the trail. In moments, Olivia could  _feel_ the magic being cast; she wasn't sensitive to it as Henry, but this was practically impossible to miss.

"Wow, someone is nettled!"

A gout of purple flame erupted from over the hill in front of them.

" _Super_ nettled!" Henry amended.

They rounded the next rise, and there, in the centre of a chaotic brawl, was their mage.

Their hair was curly, snowy blond, falling just around the base of their neck. They wore leather armour, but with trailing ribbons around their wrists. A deep purple tome was in one hand, and their other buzzed with magic.

"Henry..." she felt faint. That hair...

"...Yeah?"

"She's ours."

"I, ah, I, yeah... nyaha..."

The mage was handling herself pretty well on her own; the combined efforts of a dancer and a sorcerer were more than enough to drive the remaining enemies away.

Soon enough, Olivia and Henry stood in front of the person who'd she known in an instant.

"Mother, father..." her voice was soft, choked. "It's been so long that I-" she sniffled, and then burst into tears.

Olivia immediately felt herself welling up, and alongside her, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Henry knuckling at his face.

"Darn dust!" he said, failing to brush off that he was crying too.

Olivia took a step forward and took the girl in her arms. "I-it's nice to meet you. S-sh, you don't have to c-cry," she hiccuped. Gods, she wasn't leaving a great first impression.

The smile she received in response was watery, but the beaming, joyful happiness of her father.

"My name is Ina. I... I imagine we have a few things to discuss."

Olivia smiled back. Her heart danced with delight.


End file.
